


a little heated

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [16]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should have said something about this earlier," Eames says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little heated

"Hey," Arthur says, knocking and leaning in the door of the classroom where Eames has been sleeping. It’s late; Eames has already stripped off his sweater and is loosening his tie. "Do you have a minute?" Arthur says.

"Of course," Eames says. He pulls the tie off and rolls it up, waiting, but Arthur jerks his head at him and leads him back to his own classroom, four doors down.

"I want to get your opinion on something," he says, hitting the overhead light. "If that’s okay."

"Yeah, sure," Eames says. Arthur squares his shoulders and then starts to unbutton his shirt. Eames, who has been thinking idly about several loose ends he wants to clear up before the next test run, a job offer that came in today, and whether or not they have enough cheese left for him to make eggplant parmesan tomorrow, is suddenly, rivetingly, thinking about nothing but Arthur tugging his shirt out of his waistband, his thumb sliding down the placket to the next button.

"Things got a little heated at the end of my last job," Arthur says. He eases the shirt slowly down off his shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair. He's wearing a snug undershirt underneath; the white cotton lies smoothly against his the long wiry shape of his biceps and the hollows below his collarbone. "I got--anyhow. I got it stitched up there, but I can’t really reach it. I just need someone to take a look at it." He turns and walks over to his luggage and pulls out a small, hard-sided med kit--the same scratched one he’s always had, and even through the undershirt, Eames can see that his back is mottled with bruises. Most of them are fading, yellow and faint violet, but there are still a few deep indigo smudges curving too near Arthur’s spine. There’s a bandage beneath the undershirt, clumsily taped across the small of his back.

"All right, let me see," Eames says. Arthur turns around and braces himself against one of the tall lab benches. Eames steps in and eases the hem of the shirt up, folding it back above Arthur’s waist. Up close, the bruises look terrible, and there are also several long, healing scrapes on Arthur’s back and arms, the skin new and tender.

Arthur flinches when Eames slides his fingernail under the edge of the tape. "Sorry, go ahead," he says. The bandage is sticky with antibiotic cream and stuck to the wound in a few places, and Eames works it off as slowly as he can, but Arthur still lets out a long controlled breath when Eames finally peels it fully back and leans in so he can get a better look.

It’s a long, shallow gash that starts on Arthur’s hip and ends just above his belt, a few bare inches above his tailbone; the edges are ragged, and the entire thing is bright red, oozing a little, barely scabbed over.

"How old is this?" Eames says.

"Two weeks or so," Arthur says, which means he showed up with it, he's been taping it up himself the whole time, hiding it.

Eames hooks a lab stool towards him with his foot and sits down. "It’s pretty ugly," he says, to cover the unreasonable, presumptuous dismay he feels looking at the weeping edges of the wound, the heavy black sutures, starting to grow out. "Stitches look good, though. Skin’s granulating." He puts two fingers gently to the deepest edge of the cut, right at Arthur’s hip The muscles in Arthur’s back tense and release in a long, uncomfortable ripple. The skin is warm, but not hot; it doesn’t smell. "I don't think it's infected," he says.

"Okay, thanks," Arthur says. He starts to turn and Eames puts an unthinking hand on his waist.

"Wait," he says. Arthur stills. "I can clean it up for you, rebandage it."

Arthur takes a breath. "Fine," he says.

Eames tries to be gentle, but it has to hurt; Arthur is rigid under his hands, drawing in shallow breaths, his hands spread wide and unmoving on the lab bench.

"You should have said something about this earlier," Eames says. Arthur’s neck bends forward.

"It was fine," he says. "It wasn’t bothering me."

"Yeah," Eames says, ripping open a new packet of gauze and watching the tense set of Arthur’s shoulders. "I can tell it’s not bothering you at all."

Arthur doesn’t say anything. Eames finishes, smoothing down the tape. Arthur’s been doing surveillance, out two nights out of three, sometimes showing up for breakfast in yesterday’s clothes.

"If you want,” Eames offers. "I can take over some of the--"

Arthur jerks around, yanking his undershirt down over his stomach.

"This is not a serious injury," he says shortly. "You know that."

"Yeah, but--"

"Yeah, but nothing," Arthur says. "It is not an impediment to my work on this job and it’s not your business."

"You asked me to look at it," Eames says. He shoves back the stool and stands. "That makes it at least a little my business."

"Is it healing?" Arthur says.

"Yes."

"And do you have a complaint about my work performance?" Arthur says. He’s leaning back, hands wrapped over the edge of the lab bench, white-knuckled.

"What? No," Eames says. "You’ve been--of course not--"

"Then drop it," Arthur says.

"Okay," Eames says.

"I don’t need--I don’t need someone to take care of me," Arthur says.

"I know that," Eames says.

"All right," Arthur says. "Good night." He turns away and starts packing the med kit back together; it’s a clear dismissal. Eames nods and says,

"Sleep well, then."

"You too," Arthur says quietly, not looking up.


End file.
